


Manipulated Living

by perspi



Series: Tiny Apocalypse [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Apocalypse, Disasters, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-01
Updated: 2007-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perspi/pseuds/perspi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like that, there's no one left to know him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manipulated Living

**Author's Note:**

> **Relates to Episodes:** None  
>  **Disclaimer:** House MD was created by David Shore and not me. Richard Kelly is awesome. Me, I own nothing.  
>  **Notes:** For the **100_situations** challenge. Thanks to **blackmare** for the extra prompting. Apocalypse-fic, featuring a relatively small apocalypse (as apocalyptii go). **Major character death.**  
>  **My prompt was:** #58: Survive

 

Foreman's heart monitor flatlines; House reaches over and turns it off before looking at his watch. "Time of death: 1:43 am," he says quietly to the empty room.

Just like that, there's no one left to know him.

There's still Stacy, but she showed how little she knew him when she suggested he share.

There's his parents, who don't understand a damn thing about him.

There's an asshole cop who would just as soon spit on him as say hello.

There's three ex-wives who hate his guts.

No one left to miss him, really.

 

* * *

 

House doesn't know how long he sits at Foreman's bedside after the nurse leaves to start the paperwork, doesn't know how long it takes him to decide to get up. He doesn't know how much longer he would have sat, either, because he's interrupted by a shout from the door.

"House!?"

Suddenly he's being hauled to his feet and shaken by the shoulders. He barely gets a glimpse of brown and white and gray before a body is plastered against him, arms wrapped around him like warm steel. The body shakes as its owner stands gasping.

He's just about ready to pull away when he's pushed back. Then he's staring at Wilson, twelve inches away and gobsmacked and _alive_. Wilson's gripping his shoulders; House finds himself grasping Wilson's elbows.

They stare at each other for a full minute. Wilson is filthy and disheveled and exhausted. He smells like smoke and jet fuel and blood, which isn't much different from how House himself smells. He doesn't have a scratch on him.

Wilson says, "I dropped your coffee."

House frowns and swallows, has to work his mouth a bit before he can speak. "What?"

"I was getting lunch," Wilson says softly. "From that place across campus, with the good chicken salad, and I saw the plane. I dropped your coffee."

"You fucking idiot," House growls. He can't think of much else to say.

Wilson doesn't seem to have that problem; he's almost starting to babble. "The phone lines are still jammed, I tried calling and there was no way...I ended up helping wherever I could, wherever they needed me. Everything was _gone_ , Cuddy—"

"Fucking apocalypse," House helpfully supplies.

Wilson nods. "I heard Foreman was here." He glances quickly at the body on the bed and his face tightens before he looks back. He lets go of one shoulder to run his fingers over the smooth, singed-pink skin above House's eyes. "I saw your bike. I thought you were—"

"Wilson," House says very seriously in a voice that sounds like dry gravel. "Shut up."

Wilson blinks.

They don't let go when they start laughing.


End file.
